


Daylight

by MintToy



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Lysithea Lives, Post-Canon, Post-Game(s), Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-01-03 21:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21186089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintToy/pseuds/MintToy
Summary: “She’d spent so many days counting time. Finally, she sees her future clear as daylight.”Linhardt helps Lysithea survive more than the war. Post game.





	1. Chapter 1

At the war’s conclusion, Lysithea comes up with the idea to plant daffodils in the monastery greenhouse.

Nothing seems more suitable than the soft, yellow-petal flower meant to symbolize new beginnings. With Edelgard’s new reign, Fódlan is due for a drastic change, including an overhaul of crest-related policies and caste systems. Lysithea can note with some measure of gladness that the value of crests should fall, but more so that the war is finished. No longer will she pay the toll of using _two_ crests in battle.

Admittedly, she never frequented the greenhouse much in her academy days. Most of her free time was spent cooped up in the old and dusty library, or learning new spells. Nowadays, there is little need to return to her studies. She should learn how to garden instead, or cook and bake. Her family will have little to spare due to restoration efforts anyway.

In the greenhouse, the keeper teaches her to pick apart the weeds and suckers from healthy sprouts. She learns how deep to plant her daffodil bulbs, and how to predict which ones will grow. For the first time in her life, she gets on her knees and digs into the dirt. Soil gathers at her fingernails despite wearing gloves, but she doesn’t mind much. They work away in silence, time ticking away unnoticed.

Before long, a knock resounds the room. She glances up to find the green-haired sleepy crest scholar standing at the doorway and stifling a yawn.

“Lysithea? When you have a chance to talk, I would like a moment of your time.”

He sounds tired, but she cannot recall a time when he’s not. Her eyes drop to the leather suitcase sitting at his feet before she tells the greenhouse keeper it’ll only be for a few minutes. She discards her gloves and gives her hands a wash. Linhardt waits patiently, and only pushes himself off the door when she beckons him to follow.

They make the short trek to her room. She leaves the door open because she knows this won’t take long.

He starts off with a sigh. “A while ago, I made a promise to show you the results of my research. It disappoints me so, but as of currently, I have yet to determine a conclusive way to remove your crests.”

Lysithea leans on her desk and looks at him earnestly, even though she expected as much. Wartime left them with little time to indulge in personal matters.

He shakes his head. “…While I am certain it is still possible, I require more time. For now, it remains a work in progress and for that, I am terribly sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” she says, but as far as admonishments go, it’s a gentle one. “You’ve done more than enough. The fact that you went out of your way to research in the first place…well, I’m grateful. I should be thanking you.”

Her words offer little ease to his dissatisfaction, because in truth, Linhardt has always had strong convictions of his own – it just lies dormant behind a façade of laziness and apathy. He tries to prove he doesn’t care, but failure is not an option for him, and he’d be damned if he had to settle for it. In this case, he might have to, and it shows.

She attempts another tack to ease his mind. “Considering the state of the church, there will be little need for crests anyway. I’m certain Edelgard will make it so.”

He gleans nothing from it. “But what of your life? The war has reached its end and your days are still numbered. It hardly seems fair.”

There’s a pregnant pause.

The two of them reach a standstill and she stares at him for a bit, wondering what he’s thinking.

Lysithea doesn’t know how to counter that so she doesn’t. Eventually she shifts her focus.

“I just remembered. I have something for you,” she pipes up, turning to her pack. After some rummaging, she fishes out a small bag of twine. “…I suppose you can consider it a gift, or maybe just something to remember me by.” She offers the bag to him, and he accepts it easier than she expects. “Just a few daffodil bulbs. I know it’s not much, but I had some to spare.”

“Hmm, daffodils. How fitting,” he acknowledges, inspecting it briefly before pocketing it in his coat.

“I know you don’t like getting your hands dirty, but I figure someone else could plant them for you.”

He gets a small laugh out of that one, not offended in the slightest bit. “You know me too well, but know that I appreciate the gesture. I’m afraid I didn’t prepare anything for you in return.”

She shakes her head and dismisses his concern. In retrospect, they’ve come a long way since their academy days. A time when she would, quite literally, run and hide if they passed through the halls. He’d corner her and ask uncomfortable questions. She would fire back rudely, and tell him not to poke his nose where it doesn’t belong. He even tricked her into revealing her secrets in the first place. Empathy wasn’t his strong suit then, but he’s changed for the better.

“Are you leaving?” She gestures to the suitcase at his feet.

His expression sours into a childish pout. “Indeed. As much as I don’t want to return, my father has been summoning me back to the manor since the war ended. It’s rather troublesome, seeing as I’d much prefer to stay here with Professor Hanneman and continue my research.”

She offers a smile. “Maybe you could – one day.”

“Perhaps. In the meantime, I want to request something of you.”

More probing and inquiries. She braces herself out of habit.

“Please write to me every now and then,” he requests, surprising her a bit. “Forgive my bluntness, but your situation is rather…_precarious_. It would give me great relief to know you’ve made it home safe and sound. If you’re busy, I understand. You could send an empty page and it would suffice.”

She cannot tell if he’s joking. “Will you write back?”

“Well, of course. If I have a breakthrough, how will I let you know otherwise?”

She eyes him suspiciously, but lets it go. This could be the last she’ll see of him. Although she will never admit it out loud, she will miss him. As if coming to the same realization, he exhales deeply and then reaches for his bag.

“Goodbye, Lysithea.”

On his way out, he gently lifts her chin with a finger, tilts her face so she’s looking at him instead of the ground. He scours her features, as if committing them to memory, and then he lets go. Grievance lingers in his eyes even as he leaves.

* * *

_To: Linhardt von Hevring_

_I write to inform you that I am home safe and sound, just as you asked. _

_Lysithea von Ordelia_

* * *

_To: Lysithea von Ordelia_

_Thank you. Do take care of yourself._

_Linhardt von Hevring_

* * *

She’s been home for nearly three months when Marianne pays her a visit. She stays for only four days, but Lysithea wishes it were longer. The nearest town is a three mile walk, which is a long way to go for social conversation. The house is also quiet, just the sounds of crackling fire and creaking floorboards. Even though she doesn’t consider her parents to be dull company, loneliness finds her fast.

Their yard hasn’t been tended to in years, so Lysithea takes it upon herself to remove the shrubs and greenery growing wild and unchecked. She trims them to proper size and weeds the grasses before they grow too large. It’s back-breaking work, she quickly learns, so Marianne’s offer to help is a welcome reprieve.

One day, they commit the long distance walk to town and return with flower and vegetable seeds in their baskets. Lysithea adds to her repertoire and plants more than just daffodils. Marianne teaches her what to do with the trimmed overgrowth – how to arrange bouquets with only shrubs and greens, or how to press petals and leaves onto sheets of parchment.

Once she leaves, Lysithea pens another letter to soothe her loneliness: 

_To: Linhardt von Hevring_

_I understand it’s been a while. Things are going well at home with the exception of one thing: I’m terrible at baking. Rations are difficult to measure. I burned my last attempt at pastries. My dough does not rise enough in the warmer. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. We’ve let go of our kitchen staff to keep afloat, but I miss the cakes and sweets they served at the monastery every Friday._

_On a more positive note, I’ve started gardening. With Marianne’s help, I’ve planted honeysuckle shrubs and lilies in our yard. At least that was a success._

_Hope all is well with you._

_Lysithea von Ordelia_

She slips her best pressed flower into the envelope and sends it off with the town courier.

* * *

A package addressed to her name arrives one month later:

_To: Lysithea von Ordelia_

_I will be honest and tell you my situation is rather troublesome. I’ve been forced to help with restoration efforts. As you can guess, I have no willpower to sort out bland paperwork, nor do I have the muscle to assist with repairs. I have argued as much, but reason seems to evade my father. _

_I have asked a gardener to plant your daffodils. I’ve also been sleeping to catch up on lost time. I have no advice to offer on baking, so feel free to find the answers to your questions in the cookbook I have sent. _

_Oh, and Edelgard stopped by. She hopes you are well and healthy._

_Linhardt von Hevring_

* * *

_To: Linhardt von Hevring_

_Sleeping, huh? Sounds like you. Don’t forget to eat as you sleep for two days straight. And please send Edelgard my regards when you see her next._

_Lysithea von Ordelia_

* * *

_To: Lysithea_

_How inconvenient for both of you to make me your messenger. Why not write letters to each other instead? It’s really quite simple._

_Linhardt_

* * *

_To: Linhardt_

_You can a stubborn pain sometimes, you know that?_

_Lysithea_

* * *

_To: Lysithea_

_Yes, I have been well-informed._

_Linhardt_

She crumples the paper in her hands and rolls her eyes at his lackadaisical response. Linhardt is an intellectual, but comes off petty when he wants to be. And yet, in spite of it all, she also misses that part of him. Even after a year’s time, he crosses her mind every week, just to wonder what he’s doing, where he is, and how he’s coping with family affairs.

She mails her response a month later, and deposits it quick before she regrets it:

_To: Linhardt_

_I miss you dearly. Although it is unlikely, I hope we see each other again._

_Lysithea_

* * *

She waits one month. Two months, and then three.

She gets nothing back. Perhaps the last letter was a mistake.

The town mayor approaches her one day and she forgets it temporarily. Her neighbours know she used to attend Garreg Mach Academy, but what they don’t know is that she helped end the fight against an immaculate demon with origins older than Fódlan itself. She doubts anyone would believe her. Regardless, she’s asked to eliminate the giant wolf beast prowling in the town outskirts.

She accepts the mission mainly for compensation, but she doesn’t expect the struggle that comes with it. She knew eventually how her powers would wane, but she didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

Her miasma comes out in short sprouts and small doses, her swarm is sluggish and her seraphim is difficult to conjure. It might be her lack of practice. In the war, she overused these things until it became second nature. It also didn’t hurt as much. Now, only one day of use and her palms burn, her wrists hurt and her blood pulses unnaturally. Her crests fight for dominance, and she’s lost control of both of them.

She stumbles home that night coughing up blood and sputum. Her body weak and trembling, her mind ravaged with head pains. She’s bedridden for a few days and she’ll lose the battle to her crests if she continues to fight. For now, she wards off magic use indefinitely.

* * *

Lysithea is coming down the stairs and hefting a laundry basket higher on her hip when the front door rings. It’s the courier, she thinks, to bring in their daily mail and paper. Dropping her basket, she wipes her hands across her apron and opens the door to a halting shock. He’s definitely not the postman she was expecting.

“L-Linhardt?”

He smiles at her, too casual for her liking, and follows up with a lazy hand wave. “Morning, Lysithea.”

Her shock morphs into disbelief. She sneaks a quick glance into the living room, where her parents are sorting out paperwork, and she lowers her voice to a hissing whisper. “What the _hell _are you doing here?”

“I’m here to resume my research, of course,” he says so nonchalantly, as if it’s obvious.

She makes a quiet, but exasperated noise. His aloofness is less than helpful. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks at her strange. “Oh. Is this the first time you’re hearing this? I thought I informed you, or perhaps I forgot.”

“You _forgot_?” she repeats after him, raising her voice a little.

He puts a hand to his chin and thinks back several months prior. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t put it past myself, and it does sound like something I would do…I suppose it would also explain your lack of response.”

Lysithea drops her face into one hand and drags it all the way down. “Linhardt, I haven’t heard from you in months.”

He sighs and puts on his most sincere expression. “How callous of me. Please accept my apologies. I’ve spent the last few months at the monastery actually. It’s kept me awfully busy, but I needed to pick up a few supplies and research material from Professor Hanneman’s office.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at home?”

“Oh, goodness no,” he says, repulsed by the thought of it. “I renounced my noble claim months ago. I’ve been released from duty, and figured I should try being a scholar instead. Clearly, I’m not fit to do much else, nor am I particularly interested.”

She bites her tongue and cools her rage. It occurs to her suddenly that he’s come to help her. She doesn’t even want to imagine what other sacrifices he’s made in order to be here.

“I will require your consent, of course,” he pipes up, sparking her curiosity. “As you know, my goal is to develop a safe process in which we can remove your crests, and for that I would also need your active participation.”

She figured as much. And while hesitation rings in her mind and heart – by now she’s already come to terms with her shortened lifespan – some part of her still clings on to hope, desperate and foolish as it might seem. Strange enough, it’s almost easier to be blissfully ignorant and think it impossible.

“Umm, I…” she starts, fingers worrying and fiddling with the ends of her sleeves. His gaze is patient and sincere, and the conviction written on his face makes her want to believe. She supposes she would be stupid to refuse. “…Okay.”

“Okay?” he echoes with uncertainty.

She nods once. “Okay. I consent.”

He smiles. “Wonderful. To be honest, if you had refused, I would find myself in a very awkward and unfortunate situation.”

She’s about to dig in and ask what exactly prompted him to come all this way – goddess knows Linhardt is rarely motivated by anything – when the sound of footsteps draw near.

“Lysithea, dear? Who are you speaking to?”

Her mother enters the room and Lysithea prepares for the inevitable. Linhardt shoots her a look, silently asking if she prefers to make the introduction. She would, of course, because knowing him, he would go about it in the most nonchalant way possible, as if liberating someone from a cruel fate is no big deal.

* * *

He’s invited for dinner that night.

As she helps with meal preparation, Lysithea quickly cuts and shoots down any suspicion that he’s seeking courtship. He is here for research and requires her help. They are nothing more than former classmates. They also don’t need to house him, seeing as he’s already made his own accommodations at the town inn.

Linhardt arrives at approximately sunset, dressed in warmer robes. As he parks his horse at the front, she observes him more carefully. His hair is tied half-up and half-down, but it’s wavy and loose now. On the other hand, his features are still as delicate and pretty as she remembers. He seems relatively optimistic, but she holds on to her doubts.

Unfortunately, the dinner doesn’t go as well as she hopes.

The two of them do their best to explain the nature of their relationship. He explains his desire to help her, and then proceeds tells them in the most humanizing way possible that she is his subject. Lysithea observes carefully, and finds a growing fear and apprehension hidden in her parents’ eyes; all of this is sounding an awful lot like the initial experimentations. She knows it’s not his fault, but the mere notion of crests and blood and transfusions can trigger the horrific experiences.

To spare them the atrocious memories, she puts a hand on Linhardt’s knee and stops him from explaining the process any further. It might not even help, because the damage is already done and the conversation has taken a turn. The atmosphere is tense and almost unbearable. For a split second, she wonders if she is foolish to hope.

She changes the topic then, going back to happier memories untouched by war. Their favourite professors, classes and days at the academy. None of it helps their cause, but she does it anyway.

When the sun sets, Linhardt thanks them for dinner and politely excuses himself, explaining he should return to the inn before the night turns pitch black. Lysithea throws on a coat and follows after him, if only to escape the stiff atmosphere lingering in their dining room.

“I’m sorry if I made a poor impression,” he says with sincerity.

She watches idly as he prepares his horse, her mind heavy and deep in thought. “It’s not your fault. I should have saw it coming. My parents…well, let’s just say the world hasn’t given them much reason to be hopeful.”

He raises a brow at her words. “That would explain their skepticism.”

She sighs and nods in agreement. “Don’t be discouraged by it.”

Linhardt just shakes his head. “Of course not. All the more reason to remove your crests, actually. That’s how I see it, at least.”

She focuses on the dirt ground, wondering if he’s oblivious to the confusion that clouds her mind when he says things like that. After a while, he pats the mare and deems her ready to go.

He must be tired, having travelled from Garreg Mach to Ordelia territory the past few days, so she doesn’t keep him for long. Knowing Linhardt, he needs as much sleep as he can get. Before he leaves, he plants a kiss on her cheek – his own way of telling her to keep faith.

Suddenly there’s a knot in her chest she can’t quite explain.

“For now, I only ask that you trust me,” he says softly.

Her expression softens and loses its edges. “Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Are you sure you can do this?” Lysithea asks again.

“I’m sure,” Linhardt says, not even sparing her a glance.

She’s sitting on a chair in his motel room, watching as he prepares for the blood draw. He lays his instruments out in meticulous fashion. Alcohol and gauze one side of the table, followed by needlework and labelled vials. He’s ready, but only in theory, she thinks. Perhaps he’s changed, but during wartimes, he used to turn his eyes from an open wound or slashed shoulder. Truly he could heal blindfolded if he wanted to.

“I warn you. This will be the first of many,” he reminds, but she figured as much. “I wish it weren’t so, but if I am going to get rid of your crests, I should think of them as blood-borne contagions.”

She nods. Her arm is already lying palm side up on the table, sleeves rolled up to her shoulder.

He pauses again, takes a moment to glance over her. He takes another deep breath, which makes five now, because she’s been counting.

_He definitely cannot do this. _

Some inane part of her allows him to try anyway.

He punctures her skin with surprising ease, but the façade quickly disappears. Blood flashes in the hub of the needle and his face starts to pale. Maybe a little green too.

“Linhardt…?”

He looks away, tries to get a hold of himself.

“…I’m fine,” he gulps out, sounding every bit uncertain. He quickly fights off the light-headedness and looks again, but that’s all he can take.

Hindsight is always perfect. His grip on her arm slackens and the other goes to his head. She acts faster than he does. The loose needle is discarded and she reaches for his arm to stop him from swaying. She stands, decides quick she won’t risk walking him to bed and just eases him to the floor instead.

He passes out before he reaches the ground.

She curses him for ignoring his limits and chides herself for letting him try. When she stands back up to observe her work – Linhardt lying unconscious on the damn carpet – she only shakes her head.

_Troublesome_, she thinks. How he managed to survive the horrors of war is a growing mystery.

Over the next while, his breathing becomes slow and deep, and he probably feels a little disconnected from the world (sleeping). She doesn’t bother with worrying. Instead, she steps over him and revels in silence until he wakes.

Ten minutes later, he jolts upwards from his short-lived nap. His eyes are wide and confused, wondering how he ended up on the floor. When he turns, she’s quietly wiping down the table with a rag. The smell of alcohol and disinfectant finds his nostrils. On the table, his vials are stacked neatly and filled with red. All that blood and she doesn’t look the least faint.

“It’s done,” she pipes up, finally looking down at him. She flicks the dirty rag in his direction, which doesn’t look threatening at all. “We need to establish some house rules. From now on, _I _will be doing the blood draws while you wait outside. You are too fragile for the job.”

His stares agape for a second. No one likes to be called fragile, not when he’s been forced into the throes of war for five years. The feeling dissolves quickly, because she’s right. The hardened look on her face softens too.

“I’m sorry, Lysithea,” he says, because it feels necessary.

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it.”

Later, he pulls out his microscope and notebook. As he works in silence, Lysithea runs her hand over the analyzer and watches as her patterned crests glow and oscillate before her. She gazes at them stoically, her mind caught between acceptance and loathing. When she chances a glance back at Linhardt, his gaze veers to her. His face is calculating and thoughtful and when she asks what he’s thinking, he says nothing.

* * *

Days turn into weeks. She spaces her visits and splits her time between him and work at home. Sometimes he requires her participation and sometimes she watches him work. It’s not a bother. She uses the time to finish her errands around town anyway.

She learns quickly when Linhardt is interested in something, time becomes a long forgotten concept. It’s strange. He neglects himself to make room for research, showing her a side she’s never seen. He becomes incredibly productive, burns his way through textbooks and writes pages of notes until all the ink has run dry.

She doesn’t expect it to become a problem, but with Linhardt, she finds herself picking her battles. He either sleeps or works for three days straight. There is no in-between.

“Ridiculous,” Lysithea grumbles to herself, just after she opens the door to his room. She suspects he’s intentionally leaving his door open because he’s gotten too lazy to open it for her.

He’s dozing off at his desk, cheek pressed against a book and snoring lightly. He was sitting there last night when she warned him against overworking his mind. If the unopened dinner plate on the counter is any indication, he passed out from exhaustion.

She keeps his well-being in mind as she attempts to introduce a semblance of a normal lifestyle in him – eating regularly and sleeping at night, ludicrous as it sounds. One would think a grown man can keep track of time and care for himself.

Naturally, she becomes familiar with his habits. He has a small appetite. He always feels cold no matter the weather. He enjoys the pastries they sell next door. She knows when he’s tired, when she can bother him for breaks and when she cannot. Nowadays, she tries to tell apart the differences in his barest expressions. If he notices at all how dependent he’s become, it doesn’t show.

* * *

“Why are you doing this?”

Lysithea is gazing out the window when she realizes she’s never asked. They’re sitting across each other at a homegrown restaurant, mostly out of necessity. He’s grown a shade paler being cooped up in his room with no sun. He resisted stubbornly, of course, and it’s embarrassing how much coaxing it took on her part to get him outside.

Linhardt looks up briefly from his book, and then turns the page. “I was under the impression you wanted your crests removed.”

Her eyes narrow. “Is that enough?”

He shrugs. “It’s one reason. Do you think I acted foolishly?”

“Giving up your title and inheritance for the sake of research? Maybe a little. I figured you would prefer to live comfortably.”

He closes his eyes and flips his book shut. For a moment, she wonders if she crossed a line.

“I doubt it would have been comfortable,” he says softly, pondering the idea. “I was never cut out for noble duties, and the months I spent under my father’s roof were nearly unbearable. By choosing research, I thought I was doing everyone a favour. It seemed simple enough.”

“Hmm. That’s not simple,” she murmurs, wishing he wouldn’t minimize it.

Linhardt sits forward and props his chin on a hand. He looks at her thoughtfully, like he’s trying to read her, and it makes her uneasy. He’s been doing it a lot lately.

“Tired?” she asks, just to break silence.

He yawns into his hand, and then folds his arms over the table before burying his face into them. He uses his book for a makeshift pillow. She rolls her eyes when he’s not looking. This is the part where she should scold him, but sometimes she lets him have his way.

* * *

Lysithea paces the floor, seems to burns a hole with every step.

When she casually slipped in that her parents were inviting him to dinner again, Linhardt didn’t even look up from his reading. He gave her a calm and collected ‘sure’ and proceeded to turn the page. His aloofness irks her most of the time, but now she wishes she were more like that.

She’d debated picking him up – he will sleep through anything if given the chance – but he arrives in time. Even with him here, she just can’t shake off the nervous energy. She knows her predicament is rather unconventional – she desperately wants them to get along, but not for reasons many would assume. They will ask if he’s come across any breakthroughs. They might suspect hidden intentions beyond research – goddess knows she has suspicions of her own – but uncomfortable as it is, they should get to know the person who’s trying to lengthen her life, maybe even save it.

Fortunately he’s polite enough. He’d been raised a noble after all. Besides his insomniac habits, there’s little to question about his general manners and speech. 

“I’ve been interested in crests for as long as I can remember,” Linhardt pipes up when he’s asked. “Strange how they seem to govern our world, but also divide the people within it.”

Her father studies him for a small moment. “You must be speaking of crest inheritance.”

Linhardt nods once. “Right. Most people believe that crests are goddess-given blessings. Those of us in possession of one are thought to be closer to the goddess herself, both in blood and power, because it allows us to use her gifts and talents.”

Beside him, Lysithea starts picking at her food. She’s listening, but her mind seems far away from here.

“I speak of _magic_, of course, in the case of Lysithea and myself,” continues Linhardt. He rubs an itch from his eye to ward off fatigue. “…Other gifts are not so easily seen. Carrying pounds of heavy armor and feeling nothing at all. Possessing great sight and wisdom. Even a crest’s uncanny ability to shape one’s personality.”

Lysithea’s father indulges enough. “What brings you here?” 

Linhardt frowns at his drink and keeps his tone soft. “…Personally, I don’t believe humans were fit to possess crests in the first place.”

Finally, Lysithea looks up at him. She doesn’t interrupt.

He sighs softly and sets aside his plate. Already his appetite has come and gone. “For those born with a crest, the cost often lives in _inheritance_. We see it all the time; families split apart, favouritism amongst siblings, noble daughters auctioned off for financial gains…” Linhardt’s looking down at his hands now, and considers his next words carefully. “…Blood reconstruction itself is an age-old practice, but I believe it proves how human blood is highly incompatible with a crest’s natural power. Many have suffered and died from it, and even those who survive don’t leave unscathed.”

There’s silence afterwards. A beat. They shift their gazes across the room, anywhere but each other. Perhaps the consequences are better left unsaid.

No one says anything back, or even stops him from talking, so he finishes his explanation.

“It’s only a theory,” he says, throwing in an unconcerned shrug. “Besides, crest removal could open new frontiers in research. It could also help people like Lysithea, who I care enough about to make it possible.”

Lysithea’s lips pull a little, almost a smile. She glances at her parents and reads the interest in their eyes. There’s skepticism too, and maybe even some wonderment. Linhardt can easily take up hours of conversation explaining the mere history of crests in Fódlan.

They pause to clean up and move to the living room, but the questions don’t stop. He seems more than willing to oblige. She doesn’t mind, because there’s something unspeakably enchanting about listening to someone speak with conviction and a deep-rooted knowledge. It never comes off as dry and uninteresting. One would never guess Linhardt slept through all his lectures at the monastery.

As the night goes on, she finds herself observing the details of his face instead. The colour of his hair, his skin, the lines of concentration in his eyes when her childhood is brought up. The politeness with which he responds makes her feel warm, and she wonders for the first time if she’s attracted to him – if this is what attraction even feels like. When he glances over her, her heart does an uncanny flip. There is a weight on her chest she cannot explain.

Lysithea falls asleep when he ventures to the Nabateans. It’s a story she already knows, one he shared with her on a rainy afternoon.

Later, she wakes to a dim candlelight. Before uncurling her stockinged legs underneath her, she listens for the quiet whispers at the door. She peeks discreetly, seeing Linhardt with his coat on and speaking in hushed tones with her father. Their conversation ends quickly. Linhardt bows, turns his heel and her father closes the door behind him. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes and sits up.

Her gaze goes over to his form. “What were you talking about just now?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing, dear, but your friend is quite the historian.”

She smiles and picks herself up.

“You truly believe he can do as he says?” he pipes up, always the more skeptical one.

Tired as she is, her voice is firm. “I do.”

He says nothing for the rest of the night. No challenge this time, and she’s glad for it.

* * *

The following week, she follows her usual routine. Walk the long distance into town, knock on his door, turn the knob to find it’s already unlocked and then find him either sleeping soundly or holed up in his next reading.

Today is different. She finds him standing by the window, eyes glued to a letter in his hands. She peeks around his arm to see who it’s from.

“Professor Hanneman?” she asks, recognizing his signature. “Is everything okay?”

He hands her the letter.

“They’ve uncovered a multitude of documents from the Agarthan base, some of which could be of use to us,” he explains casually, gathering his notes scattered across the table.

“Hmm. What kind of documents?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Many of them concern experimentations.”

She looks up then, and casts a doubtful expression. His expression doesn’t change.

“Your file is one of them,” he says, answering the question in her mind. “Professor Hanneman is holding onto it, but has not read it. He will not do so without your permission.”

She sighs and tugs at her sleeves for a bit. “Well, I have little reason to refuse. If it furthers your research, I won’t hinder it.” She makes her up mind easily, expression more resolute now. “Please tell him to dissect it however he sees fit.”

Linhardt doesn’t smile or nod. He acknowledges her with an arched brow and a curious expression. It makes her a little uneasy, like he’s trying to read her thoughts.

“I have other news for you,” he changes the subject. “There is no easy way to say it, but I’ve done most of what I need to do here. I’m going back to the monastery to meet with Professor Hanneman and discuss my findings. I’m also interested in reading those documents as well, if you let me.”

This surprises her more than the letter. “You’re leaving?”

“In a sense, _yes_, but I was wondering if you would come with me? It would relieve the hassle of going back and forth, and I’m sure Professor Hanneman would be delighted to see you. You could tell him yourself he’s allowed to read over your files.”

Her nervous energy spikes, and unconsciously her fingers start worrying with the edge of her tunic.

“I…don’t know,” she says honestly. “I’d have to run it by my parents first.”

He reacts without judgment. “I understand. Don’t feel rushed to make a decision now.” 

* * *

The Myrddin stables are populated primarily by tourists travelling between territories, merchants selling their wares, mercenaries looking for new contracts and hunters scouting for beast locations. The rooms are crowded enough, loud with guests coming and going. Lysithea’s tapping her fingers at the front desk, waiting impatiently for their room key. They were lucky enough to haggle for a room.

Their room is at the end of the hall. Lysithea settles herself on the desk and wonders if she should write to her parents. Linhardt is quick to claim the bed after dumping his belongings on one side of the floor, eager and glad to be off the road after three days of travelling. She doesn’t have the energy to scold him or even shoot him a disapproving glance.

In the afternoon, she peruses the merchant stalls and grabs something ready-made for dinner. Some of them are curious why a girl her age is travelling alone without an escort. She tells them she’s a tourist passing through, unwilling to give out specifics.

When she returns, Linhardt is in the same spot where she left him. She glares at his sleeping form, unsure why it irks her nerves. Maybe it’s the fact that her bones are aching, or the weather is getting cold, or she’s simply frustrated. She wonders how he will fare on his own when this is finished.

She nudges his shoulder. “Linhardt.”

No response.

She pokes his cheek. “Wake up.”

Nothing.

She picks up one of his arms and gives it a tug. Finally, he stirs and opens one bleary eye. “Hmm. Just five more minutes…”

She rolls her eyes and turns with a huff. Dinner is prepared none too gently, and she pushes his share to the corner of the desk. Afterwards she stews over her plate to will off the steam. “Tch, wasting my time…” Her knife digs a little too deep into the piece of meat. “I don’t have many years left and this is how I’m spending it.”

She’s unable to pinpoint the source of this pent-up frustration either. Taking care of Linhardt is only a part of it. She misses her home and her parents. Being on the road has not been easy. Her headaches have worsened. She hides her jealousy when she watches Linhardt perform magic without struggle. There are documents with details of her experimentations waiting at the monastery. She hates counting her days.

She also cannot explain why all of this is surfacing now.

There’s a rustle from behind and she hides her face from the candlelight.

He pads over and leans against the desk, tries to make out her face. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

She brushes it off, but the air is still stricken with tension. “Nothing.”

He tilts his head. “You’re upset.”

“I _am_,” she admits easily, with too much emotion. She slumps on the back of the chair. There are pangs of pain growing steadily at the front of her head. She doesn’t know if they’re because of her crests, or the war, or if it goes back further than that. Maybe everything.

She presses her fingers to her temples in a self-soothing manner, but nothing can erase the bitter memories.

“Headache?”

She nods enough to get across.

He replaces her fingers with his and spurs a soft healing incantation. His magic has always been warm and inviting. Infused and touched with light. Like a sweep of a soft breeze, or standing steady on ocean waves. It’s the nature of his crest. Hers has always _burned _like lightning, corrosive even to her own fingertips. Her hands were never meant to heal.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he mutters, and for a split second, she wonders if he’s read her mind.

Her head dips in drowsiness. “Sorry.”

He sighs softly, and continues his ministrations. Somewhere along the line, she stops thinking and worrying altogether and allows his light-infused magic to spill over her.

* * *

Walking through the monastery gates feels like coming home.

The cathedral is still in ruin. The rubble is gone, but the space is empty. Pews and tapestries are missing. Statues have rusted. The atmosphere is hollow. Symbolic, she thinks, for the state of the church, but other parts of the school have been rebuilt.

She returns to her old room where she can’t help but settle. Drop her bags at the door, sweep a finger over her desk, slide over the dusty curtains. There’s a window in her head where she sees herself – late nights spent studying, scribbling notes, muttering spells and formulas in her sleep. How bittersweet to know many of the students who once housed these dorms are long gone. She’d been one of the lucky ones.

Her reminiscing is cut short as she makes for the research lab, but instead she finds them in the board room. Hanneman trifles through boxes stacked against the corner of the room and Linhardt fiddles with instruments scattered across the table.

“Ah, here it is!” the older man pipes up, heaving a stack of papers onto the surface. He adjusts his monocle for a better read. “Come, Lysithea. I believe this is your file.”

She looks in his direction, and then down to the offending papers. She steps forward and hesitates before taking her seat. She racks her brain and tells herself to pull it together. Hanneman slides the bulky folder to her and closely gauges her reaction.

“Perhaps you’d like to read it another time? No rush, my dear,” Hanneman interjects.

Lysithea fixes her mind on the truth, uncomfortable as it is. “No, I want to.”

Another moment of hesitation, and she finally opens the damn thing.

Her attention is drawn to the number stamped next to her name, and even though she expects it, it still stings the back of her eyes. The description written below piques her interest. Her hair had been lavender purple. Stature short and skinny. Tender age of four years old. Crestless. No affinity for magic or weaponry, at least not yet. She had other siblings.

_Ah, damn it_.

She doesn’t remember much about the mages in dark robes and masks, but she remembers how it hurt. She’d been reduced to a tool, often bribed with the idea of coming home, or seeing her parents again. But as a child, she had no way of knowing. Instead, she struggled to please, because obedience was rewarded – she was a good girl, the night was pain-free and she lived another day. She thought it normal, unaware how children were supposed to be raised.

Linhardt is reading over her shoulder and interrupts before she flips the page. His question is a silent inquiry, and she doesn’t lie. She moves her chair to make room and he pulls one over. She’s glad for the reprieve and company.

They take it day by day, in a literal sense. The mages documented meticulously, and it will take days to read each and every progress note. At the time, Lysithea wasn’t counting. Minutes stretched into hours, which turned into weeks. Time had been measured in the magic she learned – the moment she awakened Gloucester’s power, or the first time Charon singed her hands, or the multitude of times she failed to call either of them.

Hanneman leaves the room eventually. She hears his footsteps echoing in the hall, and somehow knows he won’t be back until next morning.

She makes it to _Day 90_ before the words start blurring into each other. She’s tired of sitting. Her back and shoulders hurt. She feels her eyes drooping. At one point, Linhardt has gone ahead of her. He has a pile set aside for records he intends to reread later and she marvels at his focus and concentration – such a strange enigma.

She tugs the end of his sleeve, rises from her seat and then neatly tucks in her chair.

“Leaving?” he mutters softly.

She nods and stretches her arms. “It’s late. Come with me? We can pick it up tomorrow.”

“No, I’ll stay.”

She gives him a tired onceover. “Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Her mind goes to her room, still covered in dust. When she tells him good night, she catches his expression – solemn and earnest. Maybe the passages have sunk too deep. She squeezes his hand on her way out, just to let him know she’s not there anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks later, she’s still flipping through the days. Some passages are easier to read and few of them trigger difficult memories. It’s a blessing she cannot recall most of the things written in these pages.

Lysithea must look particularly haggard this morning, because Professor Hanneman waltzes into the room and starts the day with a peculiar joke.

“Are you and Linhardt married, by any chance?” he asks, a smirk dancing on his lips.

She’s tired and has no energy to vehemently deny it. “No.”

He’s hardly fazed. “Engaged, perhaps? Promised to one another?”

She shakes her head. “Neither.”

“Oh, but there’s something there, correct? The two of you seem to enjoy each other’s company.”

She does not remember Hanneman being this nosy. Perhaps Professor Manuela has been rubbing off him. “There is nothing between us,” she says, the words rolling lazily off her tongue. “We are not married, nor engaged, nor promised. We don’t talk about kids, or money, or growing old together. None of that.”

Poor logic at its finest, but she’s willing to admit it escapes her temporarily.

“Can I safely assume you two are not sleeping together?”

She startles, spilling a portion of her teacup as she brings it to her lips. “Excuse me?”

“Hmm.” He scratches his beard. “I suppose not.”

Lysithea hisses as she registers the burn from the still-hot tea water.

“Is there a point to this?” she inquires, holding back none of her irritation. With a sleeve, she wipes off a stain from the front of her shirt.

He shrugs loosely. “Perhaps.”

His response incites a harsh glare from the girl, but it does not last long. She reaches for her handkerchief across the table to pat down her skirt.

“This is highly inappropriate, especially from a man of your stature. I would appreciate if you were more respectful and unassuming of my relationships,” she says distractedly. “We share common goals and interests. There’s nothing beyond that.”

The suggestion was never meant to sound romantic, but she realizes in hindsight how it can be interpreted as such. Hanneman knows it too and raises her a brow.

“Linhardt is my apprentice and I know him very well,” he starts. “Believe me when I say I have never seen him more committed to anything than he is to you, my dear.”

She peers up at him briefly, and then back down to the soiled handkerchief in her hands. It’s easier to focus on other things when her face is flushed pink.

Hanneman continues, “I know what it takes to renounce one’s nobility – I’ve committed the act myself a long time ago. You give up almost everything. The people you call family, inheritance, prestige and status, the place you consider home, even a bit of yourself...” He shakes his head solemnly. “…it’s unfortunate. Despite all of that, at the end of the day, _you_ are still the selfish one.”

Her gaze is trained to the wooden table, but she’s listening.

“My point is, I am certain Linhardt sacrificed much to be here.”

She blinks twice and looks up. “What are you insinuating?”

Her inquiry is blunt, but it’s not meant to accuse or invoke tension. The entire exchange has her squirming in her seat, even if he’s only protecting him.

“I am simply curious of his motivations,” the older man explains, meeting her gaze. “That boy is difficult to inspire and persuade, and I’ve seen it firsthand. I thought maybe you’ve done something to fuel his sudden ambition.”

She narrows her eyes. “I always assumed he took this up on his own volition, but I’m also willing to admit it’s a little far-fetched. If you’re wondering about monetary incentives, I’m not paying him or doing him any favours.”

“I never even wondered such a thing.”

She considers the idea once more. “…is it something I should be thinking about?”

“Heavens I hope not, or I would be sorely disappointed,” he scoffs.

“So what is it then?”

“You tell me.” Hanneman arches a single brow and presses further, “You said yourself the nature of your relationship is strictly business. Nothing personal beyond your collegiate partnership. Isn’t that right?”

Lysithea processes the complicated thought and attempts understanding for herself, wondering why this conversation keeps circling back on itself. The reason she keeps finding herself here.

_Why do I feel like running._

She crumbles underneath his sharper gaze. “…that’s right.”

He leans back in his seat. “What’s your take on it?”

The question lingers.

“I don’t know,” she tells honestly, after a pause.

Silence envelopes them briefly.

“My apologies, child. I don’t mean to push you.” His gloved hand goes to her shoulder, and when she chances a second glance, his gaze is visibly softer. “It just warms this old man’s heart to see two of his students here at the monastery. There hasn’t been this much excitement since…well, a long time.”

She sighs, “Do you have to be so meddlesome?”

He feigns an affronted expression. “Can you blame a researcher for inquiring? I was simply…stating my observations, if you will. Did it come off as imposing? Forgive me.” His lips tug to a small smirk under his moustache. Unapologetic, despite what he says. “I admit. Occasionally I delight in wishful thinking. You see, Linhardt reminds me of my younger self. Fascinated with crestology, how it shapes the world’s foundation and transforms the individuals within it. Regrettably, I missed things because of it. The more I devoted myself to research, the more other dreams slipped further from my reach.”

Lysithea frowns and raises a brow.

“Before I pass from this world, it would give me great gratification to know he pursued such dreams. This applies for you as well, actually. Chase your ambitions, but don’t skip on life. You should get married, take care of each other, and have children. Research is its own reward, but I believe there are greater, more joyful things in life. Take this as advice from your old teacher and mentor.”

“Your advice is oddly specific,” she points out.

He laughs, characteristically barky, but jolly nonetheless. “I expect an invitation to your wedding when it comes.”

She breathes a lengthy exhale and loses her patience. Hasty, she downs the remainder of the hot tea and gathers her papers in her arms.

“That’s enough. I am done indulging in your strange and improbable fantasies–”

“Improbable? I beg to differ.”

“–I have little time as it is! We need to get back to work.”

He smirks at her attempt at scolding. Young, impulsive and puppy-like. A coping mechanism, he realizes. He indulges her anyway, gathering a portion of her file and adjusting his monocle.

“As you wish, my dear.”

* * *

Lysithea is in the middle of bookmarking old texts when she hears it. A small gasp, barely even an audible breath, in the midst of the crest analyzer’s machinal sounds. She peers to the side to investigate the small commotion, observing the subtleties in Linhardt’s bare expression.

“What is it?”

He swallows hard and stares with furrowed brows. “This sample, it’s…crestless.”

His lack of energy casts a measure of doubt, but she strides over anyway. Wordlessly, he hands her the glass slide containing a drop of her blood and she runs it through the analyzer herself.

She waits.

Nothing.

No symbols appears before her.

No Charon.

No Gloucester.

No crest.

The blood is pure.

She feels her stomach drop. Her knees grow weak. She pans over to green-haired man, who jots down notes with a nonchalant flair. For someone who just reached his first real breakthrough, he is severely lacking in enthusiasm. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion.

“What does this mean?” she asks.

“It means we’re moving in the right direction,” he says blandly, not looking up.

She blinks at his aloofness, wondering what goes on in that tired and brilliant mind.

Linhardt finishes writing, flips the book shut and yawns into his hand. He finds her muddled expression.

“I’m not satisfied just yet,” he explains quietly. “On the bright side, it seems the formula I used on this particular sample yields promising results. I’m willing to test it on others to ensure it has the same effectiveness.”

He’s withholding himself, it seems. Saving the joy until the work is finished.

“I could draw more blood,” she offers, matching his tone.

He gives her a sheepish frown. She hides bruised arms under her sleeves.

“Please and thank you.”

She turns on her heel, and he catches her wrist when he realizes what she’s doing.

“It can wait until later. You’re tired,” he says. “I have to compound the serum again anyway, which will take time.”

He offers her a smile and she returns it.

* * *

The three of them continue to work on this breakthrough. Linhardt, after studying the entirety of her file, is approaching the research with a medical lens. It’s apparent her crests were introduced like toxins to the bloodstream. She either rejected the virus and died, or survived the implants, forcing her crests to co-exist in one body. He intends to remove it the same way, coming up with a formula to dissolve her crests, akin to an antibiotic treating bacteria and disease.

Hanneman almost forgets he’s a proficient healer, well-versed in medicine and its properties.

That’s how they got here. Linhardt sitting on a chair, visibly pale and nauseous, hesitating to offer his arm. He was the one who suggested it – he and Hanneman offering their own blood to the cause, and hoping the recipe can eliminate their crests as well.

“I’m ready. Give me your arm,” she says.

“Please be gentle. The sight of blood makes me uncomfortable.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’ve been working with blood for several months now.”

“That’s different. I dislike watching it spill from the body, especially my own. I should add that needles are frightening as well.”

She gives him an annoyed look, hoping it’s enough to get her message across.

“Do you want the sample or not?”

“I do.”

“Then get over it. It would have been done by now if you stopped whining.”

He takes another deep breath, closes his eyes and finally stretches his arm. As she rolls his sleeves up, another thought flashes and he whips back the limb.

“Linhardt!”

“I’m sorry. Please don’t poke hard. I’m lightheaded as it is.”

He’s pouting, the most childish he’s become as of late.

“If you stay still, it won’t hurt as much.”

He gives her a suspicious eye.

She decides to change tack, softens her gaze and bends down so they’re at eye level. “Hey, I’m good at this, remember? It’ll be quick. You can trust me. I’ve done it on myself several times already.”

The reminder is stinging and leaves with him little choice and room to complain. This time, he offers his arm without another word.

The process is seamless and efficient, just as she promised. His veins stand out against his pale skin and he doesn’t tense when she rubs alcohol on it. He looks away and holds his breath when she punctures his skin. For him, it seems like an eternity until the needle is finally removed, and replaced with the pressure of her fingers. He lets out a long sigh of relief, and sinks down in his seat as if he’s been through a terrible ordeal.

He finally has the courage to look up and finds a smirk on her face.

“What?” he asks.

She removes her gloves and pats his head like she’s proud of him. “Such a good boy. I knew you could do it."

He scoffs, “I am _not_ a child.”

She laughs, and tips her head to a box on the nearby table. “I got you sweet pastries from town as a reward. Do you want it or not?”

He lights up, betraying himself. He doesn’t think he’s enjoyed her company more. “Yes, please.”

* * *

The next step is obvious: a trial.

They’ve agreed to everything so far, but now there are three branches of thought.

Linhardt prefers to experiment with other crest-containing blood samples, reasoning they lack a sample size worthy of definite conclusion.

Hanneman insists on keeping the research between the three of them. This experiment will not be approved in the eyes of people in power, except maybe Edelgard herself.

Lysithea is growing increasingly impatient. Many months have passed since she’s made the monastery her second home and she pushes for the trial herself.

After much hesitation and few heated debates, they agree to _one_ trial. The infirmary is turned upside down. It takes an entire day to prepare the room and concoct the mixture. Beds are moved, shelves restocked and the space is nearly emptied. A plan is devised if things go awry and her body rejects the serum. They don’t have the luxury of test subjects, Lysithea being the only one.

For all the irony in the world, the procedure is alike to blood reconstruction surgery itself. Linhardt admits he took inspiration from the mages to devise the method.

“If you have discomfort, I need to know. You have a penchant for acting stronger than you feel,” he says rather bitterly.

She stops poking around her arm for a vein and glances at the green-haired scholar. Unusually tight-lipped, rigid features on his face and posture incredibly stiff. He’s handling his instruments with a chaotic energy, revealing a side of him that hardly surfaces. He’s irritable and exasperated, which is far from his usually lax demeanor. She’s only seen it a handful of times.

“You agreed to this,” she reminds, matching his tone.

He still cannot look her in the eye. “Not willingly.”

“Don’t start with me,” she warns, keeping her voice low. “We fought about this already.”

He shrugs with nonchalance, and from her perspective, it’s kind of infuriating.

“Hmm. I still think we should wait,” he says, just for the sake of reminding her.

She tries to smile, but it comes off sarcastic and phony. She wonders how apparent it is how much she wants to pull her hair out right now.

“Too late,” she says, knowing how petty it sounds. “It’s happening today.”

“You can still back down. I won’t blame you,” he offers again.

She shakes her head and counters with a firm and decisive, “No. I won’t do that.”

He heaves with frustration and finally looks down at her. She meets his intense blue glare with as much defiance she can muster.

“You’re being impossible. I’m starting wonder if you’re doing this to spite me,” he delivers harshly, in a way he’ll probably regret later. Afterwards, he mutters some excuse about retrieving something from the lab and leaves the room in a matter of seconds.

In the deafening silence that follows, she stares down at the floor, heart suddenly weak and eyes glassy. Her breath is shaky as it comes out. Just as she expects, the feeling of scorn quickly fades into nothing, leaving a pained and bleak disposition in its place. She rubs her eyes before she crumples into a sobbing mess. These recent spats all end the same way. Her coming up empty, instead of angry.

“This will mean nothing later,” Hanneman reassures, suddenly beside her. “Both of you are stubborn. You only fight because you care for each other. If it helps, try to remember what got you here in the first place.”

Her breaths even out slowly. “…I don’t want to fight anymore.”

He shrugs. “You have to work it out somehow. Waiting is safe, but there’s no use dallying and delaying progress either.”

“Am I being unreasonable?” she asks in a whisper.

Hanneman sucks in a breath, and contemplates for a moment.

“It’s…difficult to say. I’m sorry, child. I don’t have all the answers.”

They resume in silence. She tries to pretend it never happened and connects herself to the machine. Linhardt returns a few minutes later, all traces of hardness on his face gone.

She tries not to look his way, except when he stands in front of her.

Their expressions mirror each other; remorseful and apologetic.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers first.

She shakes her head. “It’s my fault. I’m the one pushing you.”

He dismisses it with a shrug. “We’re in this together.”

It eases few of her worries, enough to breathe easy. He gestures for her to take a seat so he can prime the infusion. She obliges without complaint.

“Tell me if you feel anything.”

“I will.”

After what seems like an eternity, it finally starts running. Linhardt gives her a quick onceover before taking the seat beside the professor, opening his book for notetaking.

Somehow, it feels like her last day on earth. She’s waited and dreamed of this since being told her days were numbered. Lysithea shakes her head, tries to throw off the memories.

Fifteen minutes in, there’s a sting in her arm where the needle is located. She tries not to hiss at the pain, but it becomes difficult to hide.

Hanneman sits up, the first to notice. “What’s wrong?”

She grits her teeth. “My arm is sore, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Linhardt stands, puts away his notebook. “We should stop it.”

“No! I can take it. This is–”

She stops as an abrupt, sharp pain sears the nerves up to her shoulder. It’s_ burning_ all of a sudden, and flaring with heat and spasm. Lysithea doesn’t scream, just a gasp and a choked-off cry, but somehow that makes it worse. She winces and folds in on herself.

He stops the machine and disconnects the tubing. That alone eliminates the sharp edge of the burn, but leaves a throbbing cramp in its wake. She collapses backwards in her seat, arm splayed limp beside her.

He’s giving her a look or reprimand, but as far as admonishments go, it’s a gentle one.

“Lysithea. This isn’t about being brave or strong. We only have one shot. If something happens to you, all of this would be for nothing,” he lectures softly, bending down to inspect for bruising or damage.

Hanneman hums in agreement and rises to stretch his arms. “The boy is right. Do not feel inclined to work beyond your limits. Our situation is risky enough as it is.”

She has no reason to get defensive. As far as she’s concerned, this is what she needs to hear. Beside her, she spies the faint glow of light. His magic is familiar to her now. She knows the feel of it: languid, light and listless. It induces a drowsy aftermath and she’s passed out from it before. It’s the work of his crest. Before she succumbs to its effects, she peers down at her partner.

“I really thought it would work,” she whispers, fighting the wave of exhaustion casted by the spell.

His gaze is surprisingly soft. “We’ll have to rework the formula,” he says quietly. Biting his lip, he casts his gaze down to her arm. “There’s a caustic burn on your skin. I’ll heal the nerves as best as I can, but I’m not sure about the scarring…”

She shrugs loosely. “It doesn’t matter.”

He says nothing back, watching as she enters a trance, wilting and slowly yielding to slumber.

“Can you be here when I wake up?” she asks, fighting off another yawn and blinking heavy eyelids.

He tilts his head to one side at the inquiry.

“Okay.”

It’s the last thing she hears before her vision goes blank.

* * *

She’s plagued by nightmares, not waking until she’s seeing _red_ and a silent scream is somehow working its way up her throat.

She lunges up from her bed, clutches the material in front of her chest and finds herself breathless. Her back is drenched with sweat and her hands are shaking. She stares blank at the window pane, catching sight of clouds filtering the light of the stars and moon. It casts a dark shadow upon the monastery and the surrounding forests. Slowly, the nightmare leaves her.

After that, she sighs. Lysithea looks down at her arms, one of them sporting an ugly reddened bruise and the other hooked up to a tube. Her gaze lazily flits upwards, finding herself linked to an assortment of fluids. Her head throbs wildly, more so than the fresh burn she acquired from the trial.

She’s alone, but hears the soft whirring of machinery across the hall. Mustering the strength to go, she drags the pole along with her and stops at the front of Hanneman’s office.

“You shouldn’t read in the dark,” she pipes up quietly. “It hurts your eyes.”

Linhardt startles and jerks lightly in the dim candlelight. He inhales deeply, and snaps his book shut.

“You should go back to sleep.”

She shakes her head. “Maybe later.”

He eyes her curiously, a long blue stare. “A nightmare, then.”

She shudders, and then absently presses her fingers against her throat where there’s a pulse. A cold shiver runs up her spine. Linhardt watches idly, staring into her eyes with question.

“It’s odd. I used to have nightmares about ghosts in my room, showing up late for class, or losing my teeth,” Lysithea starts softly, ignoring the constant thrumming in her head. “Nowadays, they’re more about feeling lonely, or losing control, or dying.”

He raises a brow. “Are you scared of dying?”

“I guess so,” she says, mild annoyance seeping through. She purses her lips, then shifts her gaze to the bookshelves. “It’s strange. I was going to die in those dungeons, and the only reason I didn’t was because I was so determined to see what life I could have outside of it, even if it meant surviving my crests. Gosh, I wanted to live so much, and still ended up dying.”

She says it with a hollow lightness, as if the whole thing can be a laughing matter. And then she’s shaking her head and rubbing her face.

“I’ve been counting my days ever since, and I’m sick of it. I’m so hopeless, and bitter, and lonely, and yet…I am still so, so terribly scared.”

Linhardt gazes with a rare tenderness. No words come to mind, so he says nothing.

Inevitably, there’s a long pause.

She drops her arms and unclenches her fists. Her expression is weary. “Do you have nightmares?”

He nods. “Occasionally. Mostly they are bloody visions of war – I wake up thinking I’m still in the throes of battle. To cheer myself up, I imagine myself lying down on a field of grass, in a place where I’m free to sleep, fish, or eat sweets whenever I please.”

She chuckles softly, “That sounds just like you.”

“Does your head hurt? I can help.”

“No, not right now. That magic of yours is like a sedative, and I…” She inhales and picks at her fingers, unsure how to say it. “I’d rather we just…_stay_, even for a short time.”

The air is so quiet and delicate she wants to bask in it. The lighting is dark, atmosphere thick but not stilted, and the whirring machinery drums like white noise. It’s just the two of them, but the silence is easy and comforting. They’ve let go of their posturing a long time ago. This is the most peace she’s felt in months.

This is what she means to say, even if he doesn’t get it.

He nods, and she’s grateful. Moving her metal pole in front of the sofa, she settles herself comfortably beside him and curls her legs underneath. He brushes off her earlier protest and picks up his book again, reading against the dim candlelight. Eventually she caves and tugs at his sleeve. Wordlessly, he settles the book in the middle so she can read for herself. The rest of the night is filled with silence.

He understands enough.


End file.
